


White Lace and Whiskey

by FagurFiskur



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean in Panties, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, more like annoyed neighbors to lovers but whatevs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 16:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12062730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FagurFiskur/pseuds/FagurFiskur
Summary: Dean has a stressful day at work and gets comfort where he least expects it: his annoying stoner neighbor, Castiel Novak.





	White Lace and Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avyssoseleison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avyssoseleison/gifts).



> prompt fill for my dear avyssoseleison: DeanCas enemies to lovers X Dean in white lace panties that are just a tad too small
> 
> see [my tumblr](perlukafarinn.tumblr.com) for ficlets or to leave prompts

Dean is a reasonable person, okay? He tried to get along with his new neighbor when he first moved in. It’s not his fault Castiel is the worst.

Bizarre music playing loudly in the middle of the night (“It’s Tibetan throat singing and it helps me sleep”). Strange guests coming and going around the clock, most of whom seem to be Castiel’s fuckbuddies. A compost heap on his balcony, which happens to be separated from Dean’s by only a thin barrier of plexiglass that does nothing to stop the smell from drifting over.

And that’s not even mentioning the constant smell of weed that clings to the carpets in the hallway. If only it weren’t legal in this state, then Dean could have gotten rid of his problem ages ago. He’s a busy person with a strict schedule, the last thing he needs is Castiel freaking Novak throwing it off with his bothersome presence.

It’s not as if the dislike isn’t mutual. Dean has taken great joy in reporting Castiel to the housing association for every minor infraction, and that hasn’t exactly endeared Castiel to him. The few times they’ve spoken, Castiel has been all snark and insults. There’s no love lost between them, and if Dean has his way their relationship will stay this way until one of them finally moves away.

*

One horrid day, Dean comes home from work around midnight, needing a stiff drink. The quarterly earning report had come in looking considerably worse than projected, and of course Adler found a way to blame every goddamn person in the company except for himself. Dean in particular had to endure a solid hour of berating that bordered on screaming. He left Adler’s office feeling about as big as a mouse and with a pounding headache, and he spent the rest of the day buried in paperwork.

He doesn’t usually drink more than a glass of wine when he goes out for dinner but tonight, he’s craving something stronger. Unfortunately, there’s not a drop of alcohol in his apartment and in his haste to get home, he’d forgotten to stop by a liquor store. The thought of leaving the house again fills Dean with dread.

An idea strikes him, and Dean glances at his door, knowing that across the hall Castiel must still be wide awake.

It’s probably stupid, but what the hell. Dean thinks he’s earned a minor mistake or two.

There’s music playing in Castiel’s apartment when he approaches it, though not the Tibetan throat crap he usually plays. Dean hesitates for a moment, then raises his hand and knocks.

He hears the music being turned down, then the lock is clicking and the door swinging open. Castiel’s eyebrows fly up when he sees who it is.

“Can I help you?” he asks, apprehension coloring his voice.

Dean figures it’s best not to beat around the bush. “Do you have any alcohol? I was going to buy some on my way home from work, but I forgot and I’d rather not go out again. I’ll pay you double for it.”

While he’d been talking, Castiel’s expression had gradually grown more confused. “Why?”

“Long day,” Dean says, all the personal information he’s willing to share with this man. “Are you going to help me out or not?”

Castiel turns away without answering, and Dean is half-expecting the door slamming in his face, but Castiel just walks into his apartment. He returns soon with an unopened bottle of whiskey and hands it to Dean.

“Just give it back when you’re done,” he says. 

Dean accepts the bottle, and _then_ he’s getting the door slammed in his face. “Okay,” he mumbles to the empty hallway, and shuffles back into his own apartment.

 

Two drinks later, Dean’s not feeling any more relaxed. He needs some comfort, he’s quickly realizing, not just the numbness the alcohol will bring. He considers calling his ex for all of a second, but he’s not drunk enough for that. It’s too late to call anyone, actually.

Dean doesn’t often feel lonely, even though he lives by himself and has been single for a couple of years, but right now he’s aching with it. In lieu of human contact, he wanders into his bedroom, rooting through his underwear drawer until he finds what he’s looking for.

He pulls out the white lace panties, flushing as he feels them between his fingers. They’ve always brought him comfort before. There’s just something indescribably _good_ about wearing them, about seeing himself in them. It’s not even inherently sexual, though of course it can be that too.

Rather than give himself time to think about it, he puts them down on the bed and starts stripping. Usually he’s good about putting his clothes away carefully but tonight he doesn’t really care. He’s naked soon enough and slipping the panties on.

They pinch a little and Dean walks over to the mirror, frowning to himself at the fit. They’re smaller – or rather, he’s bigger – than the last time he wore them. But they still feel and look good, and Dean still feels that warm surge in his chest at the sight of them.

He’s still admiring them in the mirror when someone knocks on his door. Cursing under his breath, Dean grabs a robe and goes to answer. Who the hell visits in the middle of the night?

Castiel, apparently, and Dean can’t even let himself get pissed about it because he did it first. God dammit.

“Yes?” he asks, uncomfortably aware of the panties underneath his robe and the flush high on his cheeks.

Castiel’s eyes rove over him in an entirely inappropriate way. “You know… I just had the thought that maybe I should join you. Since it’s my booze and all.”

“Why?” Dean huffs. “You hate me.”

“Thought I’d see if the whiskey would loosen that stick up your ass.” Castiel grins. “Obviously not.”

Here’s where Dean should slam the door in his face. But he’s still feeling kind of lonely, and the alcohol has made him reckless, so he steps aside. He feels a twinge of satisfaction at the surprised look on Castiel’s face but that evaporates as soon as the other man steps inside.

“Make yourself at home,” Dean mumbles, walking to the couch.

Putting on some clothes would be the polite thing to do, but he’s not feeling particularly polite right now. He sits down, grabbing his mostly-empty glass and draining it. He’s somehow not surprised when Castiel plops down next to him and grabs the bottle of whiskey, not bothering with a glass. Dean watches from the corner of his eye as Castiel takes a generous swig, and dammit that is _not_ lust he feels at the sight of Castiel’s lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle.

“This is some terrible whiskey,” Castiel says as he hands the bottle back to Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, accepting it.

It’s probably the first thing they’ve ever agreed on, come to think of it.

Dean pours himself another glass, acutely aware of Castiel’s eyes on him as he does it.

“So what had you so riled up?” Castiel asks.

“Work,” Dean says. “Quarterly earning report. You know.”

Castiel chuckles. The low sound sends chills down Dean’s spine. “Luckily, I don’t. I’m not sure how you stand it."

“ _It_?” Dean repeats disdainfully.

“You know.” Castiel waves his hand, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and taking another sip. “The corporate rat race. Sixty hour work weeks, wearing that monkey suit every day. Never seeing any tangible results of your work."

Dean scoffs. “I like my job. I’m good at it.”

He’s underselling himself. He’s fucking _great_ at his job. Wouldn’t be Director of Sales and Marketing at such a young age if he wasn’t.

“You _live_ your job,” Castiel corrects. “When did you last take a vacation day?”

“What does that matter?” Dean asks. “Who are you to judge me, anyway? What the hell is it you do?”

“I paint,” is Castiel’s vague answer

Dean is intrigued despite himself. “What kind of work?”

“I dabble in a few modern movements. A little expressionism, a little surrealism. Minimalism, if I’m sober.”

Dean hums noncommittally, taking a long sip of whiskey. “...I’d like to see your work sometime,” he admits.

Castiel quirks an eyebrow at him, a smile tugging at his lips. “I like you better tipsy.”

“So the whiskey did remove the stick from my ass?”

“Maybe.” Castiel puts the bottle down, turning to face Dean. “You want something to replace it?”

Dean chokes on thin air. His eyes dart wildly over to Castiel, who’s smirking at him, all smug self-confidence. He had been kidding, _right_?

“I’m just saying,” he continues, and oh god, he’s getting closer, arm snaking over the back of the couch, “if the whiskey has this effect on you, how much better you’d feel if you got laid.”

“I get laid,” Dean protests weakly.

He really should be ending it here and kicking Castiel out, but he does nothing to stop it when Castiel closes the gap between them and starts nosing at his neck. Even leans into it when Castiel starts kissing the sensitive skin above his collarbone and his hand runs up Dean’s thigh, underneath the robe.

“You really are far too attractive for your own good,” Castiel mutters against his skin. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“You don’t even like me,” Dean reminds him, though he’s having a difficult time finding his words with Castiel’s hand now stroking the inside of his thigh.

Castiel hums. “We don’t have to like each other to have sex.”

Which is an excellent point. Dean doesn’t want to argue it, at least. He’s too tired for conflict, he just wants to relax and feel good, and Castiel is promising him just that. He doesn’t even have any second thoughts about grasping Castiel’s shoulder and pulling him in for a proper kiss. They waste no time on niceties, skipping straight to open-mouthed and filthy, teeth nipping at lips. If Dean’s gonna make this mistake, then he’s really gonna commit to it.

The hitch in his plan makes itself apparent when Castiel’s hand reaches his underwear and stops. Castiel pulls away, and Dean is too mortified to stop him when he folds back his robe to get a good look at the white lace panties Dean is just now remembering he put on earlier.

“Uh,” Castiel says intelligently.

“I-” Dean says, equally as coherent.

Castiel’s eyes dart up to Dean’s face, taking in his horrified expression, and then he’s _smirking_ , the fucking bastard. “Why, Smith. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Anger swells in Dean’s chest but it deflates as soon as Castiel pulls him in for another kiss, twice as hungry as before. Then he’s climbing onto Dean’s lap, grinding his now very obvious erection down against Dean’s cock, and _oh_. He’s not mocking Dean. He’s _into_ it.

Castiel pulls away before Dean has the presence of mind to even kiss back. “I’ll make you come into those pretty little panties,” he promises, voice heated and rough. “Not even gonna take them off, gonna suck you through them until you’re screaming my name.”

Dean whimpers, hips twitching of their own accord. He hasn’t shared this part of himself with anyone since Rhonda Hurley, and it’s got him almost dizzy with arousal. Castiel gives him one last, filthy kiss, then he’s kneeling down on the floor, between Dean’s legs. He grabs Dean’s cock through the panties, jerking him until Dean is completely hard and leaking.

He’s gonna need to handwash these panties later, is Dean’s admittedly absurd thought as Castiel removes his hand and replaces it with his mouth. He’s not thinking much after that, brain scrambled by the incredible suction and _heat_ of Castiel’s mouth, by the strength behind his hands as he grabs Dean’s hips and pins them to the couch, rendering him immobile.

Dean can’t hold back the noises tumbling past his lips, needy and breathless, and he doesn’t even care. He hasn’t been this turned on in a long time, lust building low in his gut, sending bolts of heat down his limbs. It builds to a dizzying peak and then he’s coming, choking back a shout, hips twitching helplessly against Castiel’s strong grip.

Castiel keeps licking him through the panties, until the sensation becomes too much and Dean pushes him away. Then he’s getting up, straddling Dean again. He pulls his dick out and starts jerking it hard and fast, and all Dean can do is look, mesmerized.

“So fucking hot,” Castiel gasps, hips working into his grip. “That gorgeous dick in those pretty panties, wanted to eat you all up. Wanna fuck you in them, pull them to the side and just slide home. Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you sweetheart?”

And Dean’s just come but _fuck_ , if he doesn’t love every single thing Castiel is saying. He nods desperately, dick twitching in a valiant effort to get hard again.

Castiel groans and then he’s coming, spurting over Dean’s chest and lap. He goes limp against Dean, still panting, getting their combined spend smeared between them.

“This is so dirty,” Dean can’t help but complain.

Castiel laughs breathlessly into his ear. “Everything worth doing is.”


End file.
